The Best of All Worlds
by o-taiyou-san
Summary: <html><head></head>Once upon a time, a young Hashirama had believed that winning the man he loved (along with peace, of course) was all he needed to be truly happy. Many years of soaring highs and crushing lows later, he came to realise just how naïve he had been. Canonverse. Alternate Continuity.</html>


_This story has sat in my mind for a long time now. What really spurred me to get it off the ground were my feelings of loss after the events of chapter 691. A lot of effort was spent making this happen. A lot of feelings and care went into it. As I haven't written a full-length story in nearly two years, I'm a bit nervous about this one's quality. I want to do a good job, and I know I'm not in top form, so any suggestions or constructive criticism would be much appreciated. It's quite long, and a bit clumsy, but I think of it as my gift to this pairing's small yet wonderful fandom, which sadly may fade away before very long. I hope with all my heart that when you read this story, it will touch you in some small way._

_Taiyou_

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><p><strong>Notes.<strong>

**This chapter and the next few that follow are not exactly as "suspenseful" as the rest of the story will be (as they're essentially a facelifted version of Hashirama's flashback). Savour this while you can. Also, please don't take me to task when the dialogue doesn't match the manga word for word. Same goes for the session. I'm not trying to retell canon here.**

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><p>They met on a balmy day near the end of spring, beside the yet unnamed Naka river. I believe Madara arrived on the scene first - ambling his way along the rocky bank, a coat slung casually over his right shoulder, a blue umbrella perched proudly atop his left.<p>

(His birthday gift, his insurance against the fickle springtime weather, his prized possession, which he "showed off" in public every chance he got. Yet had Madara been born into a world that suffered selfish children, he very well may have been loath to receive this drab, utilitarian object in place of say, some shiny new plaything - but let us depart from such wishful thinking. In this world, Madara had no use for toys. Not when there were a thousand more important things for him to pine for)

Eventually his wanderings led him to a random spot close to one of the sparser patches of the surrounding forest. Coincidentally, this put him in the direct path of this story's other protagonist; a boy who, in the best of all possible worlds, Madara would never ever have met.

Madara felt him coming almost as far as half a kilometre away. Not in the way a shinobi would detect his enemy, but in the hard-wired, visceral manner a small animal becomes aware that something closeby has _shifted_.

At once he stopped in his tracks and began offloading his precious (and now cumbersome) cargo - his arms (now rough with gooseflesh) needed be free.

Soon enough he heard sounds; small and faint, yet discernable and familiar: something that walked on two feet was trampling twigs underfoot - clumsily.

Calmly, Madara crouched over and snatched up one rock after the other. In the time it took to stow half a dozen of them up his sleeves, he was able to establish two things: one, whoever was coming this way was alone. Two, they were fairly small in size, almost certainly another child, which in itself was not exceptionally unusual: There were two or three civilian settlements within reasonable walking distance, and this area was neutral. Madara knew children played near here from time to time, however strongly their parents warned them not to stray too far.

(But Madara also knew of the other two settlements which lay further off - which were _not_ populated by harmless civilians. He recognised the possibility - slim as it was - that this child may also be a soldier. He had half a mind to check out his chakra to make sure - but to do that he would have to mould some himself. And if the kid was doing the same - if Madara picked the wrong moment and gave himself away, if the kid happened to be from _that clan_...)

Surprisingly, Madara's feet did not carry him off. Instead he straightened up, raised his head just in time to see a pair of fish break the chuckling river's surface. Around the same instant they plopped back into the water, the scuffling movements behind him stopped .

Surprisingly, he was not worried.

Or rather, he could not for the life of him _make_ himself worry. Even as a colony of ants began to swarm at the base of his spine and he felt a pair of eyes drilling holes into the back of his head. Nervous energy shot through his body, but not fear.

And that was very odd.

In any case, he decided that however long the kid chose to stay hidden in the foliage, he would behave as if he were none the wiser.

Keeping his posture relaxed, Madara scanned the ground and picked up another flat pebble (absently praying that he would not have to kill something besides time today). A little time went by, and he fell into a hypnotic repetition; picking up stones, idly throwing them into the river, watching the ripples spread.

Meanwhile, under the forest canopy, a curious Hashirama watched him.

Unlike Madara, he was nosey to a fault. _He_ prodded and pried quite boldly, sensing a chakra reservoir too strong and abundant to be an accident of nature, growing more and more certain that Madara was a shinobi, more and more sure that he would soon be noticed if he didn't beat a retreat.

Yet his feet were not budging, and he did not know why. After all, Hashirama knew he had never seen this boy around the Senju's territory. He was probably an enemy. Hashirama knew that (still, a mad battle raged inside him, between our dear friend Common Sense and the vague impulse that drives little boys to befriend one another).

(And Hashirama did like this boy, for no real reason other than that he _felt right.)_

The splashing noises carried on. Hashirama noticed a fish would leap out of the water every time Madara threw - no,_ launched_ a stone into and straight through the water. Another startled fish sailed through the air, its tail leaving an arc of pearl-like droplets behind (its neat little scales shining like the rainbow). In the gloom, Hashirama smiled.

"_Tsk!_"

Madara grunted as he squatted down for what was probably the umpteenth time that day. What was he doing now?

A new stone whizzed over the water, bounced once, twice... and ran out of momentum. Another soon followed, and then came a third. Hashirama put two and two together - he was trying (failing) to cut a rock over the water all the way across.

Hashirama's smile became a grin. A little mischievously, he wished he could see the (doubtless) frustrated expression the boy was wearing

(But mostly he just wanted to see his face. He could barely see it from where he stood).

He slunk forward, with none of his previous (feigned) clumsiness. Just as he neared the shoreline, Madara's stone fell short of the opposite shore yet again. Hashirama was tempted to stuff the kerchief around his neck between his teeth, for fear his laughter would boil out.

Meanwhile, Madara's keen temper flared as the sun beat down on his shoulders. He crouched over and snatched up a rock as quick as thinking.

"This time. This time I'll get it there," he grumbled, tossing it up into the air.

(It was a bluff. He had never skimmed a rock all the way across something this wide in his life. Mostly because he had never tried to. But that was beside the point. After all, the little _distraction_ behind him - oh, god, _coming up_ to him - obviously had no damn clue of his _handicap_. They would think he was totally useless at skimming stones, and (heaven forbid) were probably mocking him at that very moment.)

(But he would be well within his rights if he said it was partly _their_ fault, wouldn't he? Skulking around behind him, staring, trying to sneak up close, making his lower back itch like crazy, shooting his concentration to hell...)

Behind Madara's tense little figure, Hashirama picked up a stone for the first time. He aimed high, then fired, and watched his missile slice through the air. It bounced off the sparkling water, once, twice, thrice, four times, three more, and made a plicking sound as it landed among the pebbles of the opposite bank.

Madara gave a little start, looked over his shoulder - _glared._

Hashirama was taken aback, but kept his expression mild. He took a moment to examine the kid's face. Fair skin, incredibly black eyes, a pale (sulky) mouth, rounded cheeks, knitted eyebrows. Grumpy, but far from bad-looking. He had nice thick hair (the warm sunlight gave it a delicate blue tinge), probably looked good when he laughed.

(Hashirama's mind conjured up a picture of the boy grinning, his cheeks pushed up, black eyes crinkling happily.)

(It made his tummy feel funny.)

Hashirama smiled (hopefully), attempting to break the ice. His mouth (unfortunately) began forming words on its own.

"Aim a little higher than you think is necessary... that's the trick,"

The moment he finished speaking, Hashirama somehow just _knew_ he had said the wrong thing.

The boy's brow darkened, right away, Hashirama mentally kicked himself.

"I know _that_," he grumbled (his voice was surprisingly loud... but not unpleasant) "It'll reach if I put my all into it," with that he broke eye-contact to glance at his rock. After a beat, he looked back up at Hashirama, eyebrow cocked.

"More importantly, who the hell are you?"

Hashirama's stomach clenched, relaxed, erupted with butterflies. The kid - Madara - was looking at him fixedly - so fixedly he felt his cheeks beginning to catch fire. He supposed he would be blushing soon (because he noticed he had to look _up_ at the other boy to meet his bottomless, penetrating ocularies, and that they were the darkest, most intense pair he had ever seen in his life, and that despite not minding all this, despite himself, he decided he needed to keep his dignity).

Affecting nonchalance, he hummed, then quipped, "You could say I'm you're rival at stone-skimming," and, for good measure, "Though _I _actually made it all the way across,"

His companion looked as if he wanted to hit him. "I think I asked you _who you are_, smart ass,"

A pregnant pause.

"Given name's Hashirama. I can't say my family name... for reasons." he hoped this would mollify the kid enough not to lose his temper and leave. He hoped he wouldn't think he was a shinobi because he had to hide his family name. (He hoped this boy would tell him his own name in return).

The boy looked at Hashirama as if he had suddenly sprouted a third eye, turned away.

"Hashirama, eh?" he brandished his pebble "Just watch me. This time I'll make it."

And watch attentively Hashirama did. The wind-up was different this time - smooth, not a hint of strain, no wasted movement. In short, shurikenjutsu, very good shurikenjutsu (this kid must be a first-rate s_hinobi_). Hashirama frowned. Just how good was he?

_PLOOP!_

(Eh?)

The little blue-clad figure in front of him froze, knees bent, arms suspended in midair. The stone... had not made it across.

(Disappointment.)

The boy turned to face him.

(_Disappoi_-)

"GODDAMN YOU!" he boomed, shocking Hashirama thoroughly. His thoughts tangled up like noodles, and his arms instinctively moved to shield his face. "Wha-"

"_Shut it! You distracted me this whole time! You stood behind me on purpose! I'm the type who'll even stop _pissing_ if someone's standing behind me!"_

What? Oh... Oh, no...

Hashirama scuttled backwards, stumbled a little, stopped. Finally, he hunkered down and sullenly hugged his knees to his chest, in turn completely surprising Madara. His anger soon gave way to confusion, dissociating, then dissipating. In a wobbly voice, Hashirama muttered "Sorry,"

Madara, who had been poking his finger in Hashirama's face, felt the tension leave his outstretched arm, let it wilt. He now felt a little sheepish.

"F-forget it. Don't get so depressed, okay?" he fumbled for words. It felt awkward trying to cheer up a perfect stranger. He'd have far less trouble cussing him out - but it seemed unfair to pick on such a sensitive little guy. He heaved a sigh.

"It was my bad, okay? I was just making excuses,"

"I didn't know," Hashirama said to Madara's ankles, "That you had such an annoying idiosyncracy,"

Scandalised (how did he know that word?), Madara snarled, "I can't tell if you're a nice guy or a jerk, you little - "

And he was quite suddenly cut off by Hashirama's laughter. He bounded to his feet, made swishing motions with his arms, leaving Madara dumbfounded - until his mind recovered enough to process what Hashirama had just said.

_But you can at least tell that I'm better than you at cutting water, can't ya?_

Needless to say, Madara was fuming!

"Then maybe I should try cutting the water with you instead!"

To Madara's horror, Hashirama immediately sank to the ground again, muttering something that sounded like 'sorry', 'won't do it again', 'didn't mean to get you angry', 'go ahead and throw me over'. Madara had to lean closer before he could catch everything clearly.

"Hey, have you ever thought that maybe _your_ quirks are annoying too?" he grouched, at the same time Hashirama spoke his final sentence. He almost lost track of the words. Almost.

"But... I'd like to actually reach the other shore if you don't mind,"

And Madara snapped.

"_Get lost, ya fucking eyesore!_" he screeched.

Unbelievably, Hashirama hopped up, threw a quick "See ya," over his shoulder, tried to walk away. _Like_ _hell_ Madara would let him. His hand whipped out and bit into his shoulder.

"Hold it!"

Looking a bit exasperated (oh, the nerve), Hashirama craned his neck, replied, "Which is it, then? You try making yourself clear too,"

(It was then that he noticed something large floating down the river.)

"What's that in the water?" he said out loud. Madara threw him another clueless look, followed his gaze... and saw _it_. His hand fell off Hashirama's shoulder. "A... corpse,"

Hashirama acted first. While Madara fought down the lump in his throat, he hopped towards the river, and didn't sink. But Madara had expected as much. "You're a shinobi," he said tonelessly.

The question was redundant. Hashirama's demeanour had changed in a manner that would have been downright unnatural for an untrained child. "At this rate this place will be a battlefield too," Madara was not sure if he even knew he was speaking aloud.

"Leave now." he said, more clearly, "I have to go back," worry flooded into his eyes. Yes, Madara had seen that look before. Those were the eyes of a person who fears for someone they love. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something (what?), but he supposed Hashirama had already tuned him out.

Instead of calling out, Madara watched him leap the rest of the way across the river and start toward the forest, expecting to never see him again; however, Hashirama turned back.

"So long, er..."

"Given name's Madara. As a shinobi," he smiled crookedly, "I won't be revealing my family name,"

Hashirama looked at him, knowingly, "So I was right,"

Their eye-contact lingered for a moment, broke off mutually. At the same time, they silently took leave, Madara unsticking his umbrella from the ground as he went, Hashirama slipping into the forest.

Some time after they parted, Madara suddenly remembered the flat rocks in his sleeves.

(And in the process of wondering where to drop them off, he realised they were pretty good rocks. So back at the Uchiha settlement, he stacked them carefully in the corner by the northern wall of his home. He may need them later for... stuff.)

Inside he found his father crouched before the cooking pot, was told to go hunt down his brother. He found him spitting last year's peach stones with a gaggle of snoots, somehow got dragged into the game, won the next four rounds easily, nearly got into a fistfight with one of the sore losers. Colourful language was involved.

By the time they got back, Madara was uncharacteristically deflated. When dusk fell, he for once did not resist the nightly banishment to the bedclothes, had even shushed Izuna and hauled him off to get the futons. (The astonished expression on Tajima's face had been priceless.)

Curled up next to his brother, teetering on the thin membrane between waking and slumbering, his mind mulled over those last few moments by the riverbank. At the time, a strange sensation had been seeping into his bones; warm, faint, not exactly unpleasant. (For lack of a better word, we shall call this feeling "attraction". The kind that frequently gives birth to affection. Un-for-tu-nate-ly.)

And for a reason he did not know, Madara was convinced that he would meet Hashirama again after this day.

One way or another.

(He would think more deeply about it tomorrow.)

So thinking, Madara drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, the object of his musings lay awake, sporting a nasty new bruise, tossing in his blankets, guilty with the knowledge that one of his little brothers now lay scattered in pieces on a cold, deserted battleground.

Nothing a thousand other children hadn't been through before.


End file.
